Page 9 of Angel’s Claim

We head up the stairs to the second floor, and I walk her to room twelve. She unlocks the door, and we both step inside.

The room is basic: queen bed with a faded comforter, nightstand, small TV, bathroom visible through an open door. But it's clean, and the lock on the door works, and that's enough.

Bree sets her backpack on the bed and turns to look at me.

"Thank you," she says. "For everything. The pancakes, the walk, this."

"You're welcome."

She reaches up and starts to shrug off my cut.

"Keep it," I say.

She freezes. "What?"

"Keep it. At least for tonight. You're still cold."

"But—"

"No but."

Bree stares at me, and I see the moment she stops arguing. She pulls the cut back around her shoulders and nods.

"Okay."

I should leave. I should walk back to O'Malley's, get on my bike, and head to the clubhouse before anyone notices I've been gone too long.

But I don't move.

"You gonna be okay?" I ask.

"I think so."

"You need anything, you call the clubhouse. Number's on the card in your pocket."

Bree reaches into the cut's inner pocket and pulls out a business card: simple, black ink, Iron Phoenix logo and a phone number. Phoenix had them made a few months ago for situations exactly like this.

"I will," she says.

I nod, and turn toward the door.

"Angel?"

I look back.

"Will I see you tomorrow?" she asks.

The question catches me off guard. Not because I wasn't planning to come back. I was, but because she sounds like she actually wants me to.

"Yeah," I say. "I'll come by around noon. Make sure you're settled."

She smiles, a real smile this time, dimples and all.

"I’ll be expecting you"

I leave before I do something stupid like staying.

The walk back to O'Malley's takes less time than the walk there. I move faster when I'm alone, less aware of the cold now that I'm not watching someone else shiver. The streets are even emptier than they were twenty minutes ago. Just me, the streetlights and the sound of my boots on pavement.